The weather was up as Halvard Storstrand hauled on the tiller of his knarre, the boat turning around the head of the island at his command. The wind shifted the yard and the the sail remained full. His men adjusted the tack lines and the vessel surged forward, shuddering as it crashed over the budding whitecaps.

As their point of view shifted, the town of Oskandr came into view and the sailors cheered to see their home. Halvard smiled to see the great hall looming up in the growing rain. His people were an industrial folk, and smoke and heat could be seen coming from the ground vents that lead to the ancient underground barrows that the Knarrlings called home. In the wet weather the great stone and wood hall that topped the submerged settlement loomed like a great beast amongst the clouds. [i]A dragon, watching the sea, [/i]thought Halvard.

The crew expertly got to work as the knarre neared Oskandr’s pier. They furled the sail and Halvard guided the vessel in without anyone ever having to unship the oars. As the boat was secured, Halvard Farsailer’s boots hit the wood and he was off to the hall. His men would handle the knarre and he had news to bring to his family. 

——-

Fish stew was a simple staple on the islands and coastlines that the Knarrlings called home, but after a cold day on the sea there was nothing better. King Halvard’s eldest children were gathered, but they knew better then to press their father until he was finished his meal.

Ingvild Storstrand, first daughter of Halvard, was impatient nonetheless. Her knee bounced as she waited, watching how her brothers reacted to their fathers patience. Hjalmer, only a year younger then her sat immobile, his dark hair that was so similar to hers still wet from the rain. He would sit quietly for an hour if he must, and without complaint. Lost in his own head somewhere. Their younger half brother Knute was less serious then Hjalmer and fiddling with a button on his sea coat. After a moment of her scrutiny he looked back at her, eyes flicking to a scar on the side of her lip that gave her a permanent snarl. Ingvild leaned forward and was about to speak when the sound of their fathers spoon landing in the empty bowl interrupted her.

“Well,” began the Fisher King in his slow deliberate way. “It may yet be war. Erlendr is regent, but not recognised by all. The Pale Ones rise again, and some claim armies from the south rally to invade all of the Broken Lands.”

“And where do you stand on these events, father?” Asked Hjalmer dutifully. Sometimes his decorum infuriated Ingvild.

“I have declared the Knarrlings for nobody,” declared the elder Storstrand. “As to the rumours from the south, I fear there could be grains of truth to it.”

“What do we do?” asked his daughter impatiently.

“This will please you, Ingvild Ironclad,” their father stated with a wry, humourless smile. “We will make swords and axes. We will build armour and shields. The Knarrlings will prepare for war.”

Ingvild was pleased, but Hjalmer interrupted her feelings. “We will prepare for war,” he began thoughtfully. “But on whose side?”